


Alone With You

by CrayolaDinosaurs



Series: Alone With You Verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Crack, Fluff, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-07-21
Packaged: 2017-11-10 09:51:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/464960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrayolaDinosaurs/pseuds/CrayolaDinosaurs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade has had a lot of relationships. A LOT. But he's never had one quite like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lockedin221b](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lockedin221b/gifts).



> Guys, I don't know what happened with this one. It just sort of went off on it's own.  
> Thanks to [Meg](http://www.megg33k.tumblr.com) , [Z](http://www.lockedin221b.tumblr.com) , and [Em](http://www.xspartan09.tumblr.com) for all your help! Love you guys.

Gregory Lestrade was no stranger to relationships. He'd been married for goodness’ sake. Well, kind of married. He'd had a wife. They’d had a wedding. Whatever, that’s not the point. Gregory Lestrade liked to think of himself as emotionally experienced, if not quite the emotional expert. He’d been in many a relationship; girlfriends, boyfriends, not friends, and then, of course, the wife. One night stands, five date rules, “no strings attached” sex, committed relationships: he’d had them all. Frontways, backways, sideways, slantways: cross them off the list. Were the relationships perfect? Obviously not. But they were an archive of experiences that he had learned and grown from and each relationship was a little bit less of a tossup than the last. Gregory Lestrade thought he’d had every type of relationship possible. Until now.

...................................................................................................

“Hey, Mycroft, I don’t know if you got the last few messages I left, but, um...” Greg sighed, rubbing his eyes with his middle finger and thumb. “Look, I know this isn’t really how this, uh... re- whatever this is works, but I’d like to erm... Just give me a call, yeah?” He grimaced as he placed the phone back in the cradle.

“That was certainly special,” Greg looked up to see Sally smirking at him from his doorway. He ran a hand through his hair and she quirked an eyebrow at him. He buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“Yeah, that wasn’t great, was it?”

“Just a bit not good, sir.” She agreed with a small smile. “Anyway, the Freak’s here to give his statement and I have a lovely pile of paperwork with your name on it.” She slapped a stack of files on his desk. Greg heaved a long-suffering sigh and nodded.

“Alright send him in.”

...................................................................................................

Mycroft didn’t call Greg, but that wasn’t really a surprise. Mycroft never called him. In fact, almost three weeks passed before there was any contact between the two men. Greg had been chasing after Sherlock on an absolutely monstrous case, and when he fell into the armchair in his flat with a cold beer, he wasn’t even thinking about his so-called relationship, which is probably why he yelped like a little girl and dropped said beer when Mycroft Holmes came around the corner and sat in his lap.

Before he could recover from the surprise of finding the posh elder Holmes straddling him, Mycroft was sucking softly on the area where his jaw met his neck. He moaned quietly as Mycroft nibbled on his earlobe. His hands slid under Mycroft’s jacket to fist themselves in his waistcoat. Mycroft sank farther into Greg’s lap as he nibbled along Greg’s jaw. As Mycroft’s tongue swirled around the dimple in Greg’s chin, Greg tilted his head down to capture Mycroft’s mouth. His tongue traced the backs of Mycroft’s teeth until Mycroft became impatient and took possession of the kiss by invading Greg’s mouth. Their tongues tangled and Greg pulled Mycroft closer until their chests were flush. He ran one hand down Mycroft’s thigh before settling on the slight curve of Mycroft’s arse.

Mycroft began to roll his hips as he lavished kisses on Greg’s neck. Greg’s hands gripped Mycroft’s hips as Mycroft’s fingers moved to the buttons of Greg’s shirt, slowly popping each one open, kissing as he went. By the time Mycroft had exposed Greg’s chest, Greg was breathing heavily, his trousers tight. Mycroft buried his face in the silvery hair covering Greg’s torso and inhaled the sharp scent. Moving upwards again, Mycroft nipped at Greg’s collarbone. Greg grabbed the base of Mycroft’s skull and yanked him into a searing kiss.

When a loose spring poked Greg uncomfortably in the back, he came to the realization that both of them were getting much too old to be having sex in armchairs. Mycroft had returned to marking his neck.

“Er... Mycroft?”

Mycroft responded with no more than a curious hum as he bit deliciously at the muscles in Greg’s neck. Greg hissed.

“Perhaps we should, ah...” Another bite. “Move this to the bedroom.”

“Perhaps we should,” Mycroft agreed, though he made no motion to vacate Greg’s lap.

“Well, then, come on.” But Mycroft continued, now placing kisses across Greg’s forehead. “Budge up now.”

"But Gregory, I’m so comfortable;” Mycroft purred, rolling his hips again, “moving now would be such an inconvenience.”

“Yes, well, the spring in my back is inconvenient.” Greg tried to sound firm, but Mycroft had chosen that moment to trace the shell of his ear with his tongue, so it ended up a bit breathier than he’d have liked.

“Well, I’m not getting up.”

"Fine then, you great git.” Greg pulled their hips together and Mycroft groaned attaching himself once more to Greg’s neck. But Greg wasn’t giving up so easily. He worked up enough leverage to rock himself into a standing position.

Thinking he’d finally outmanoeuvred a Holmes, Greg was disappointed when Mycroft merely wrapped his long legs around Greg’s waist and smirked before kissing him again.

“You’re a right pain in the arse,” Greg said affectionately.

“I knew you’d get there eventually.”

Greg walked them to his bedroom and shut the door.

...................................................................................................

Greg sat quietly in his armchair nursing a whiskey. Yes, okay, so, it was 1:30 in the afternoon and maybe he couldn’t remember exactly when he’d started drinking or how many times he’d filled the glass, but Greg couldn’t really bring himself to care. He had awoken that morning to the warm sun streaming across his naked body. He stretched through the soreness and smiled to himself. He had reached for Mycroft and found the bed empty and cold.

Greg shivered as he felt the ghost of Mycroft’s hands scratching down his back. He swallowed the remaining liquid and poured himself another. He raised the glass to his lips before letting out a sigh and placing it on the table. He ran his hands over his face pressing at the bridge of his nose and the line of his brow. When had this become his life? Drinking in the middle of the afternoon, pining after a man he barely knew. And he didn’t know him, not really. They never talked. Mycroft never called. Greg had never met any of Mycroft’s friends, assuming he had any, you could never know with the Holmes’s. It was obviously just sex for Mycroft and Greg had no problem with that, really he didn’t. So, why couldn’t he get the arrogant stick of a man out of his head?

Greg downed his drink again and threw the glass across the room. It didn’t even have the decency to shatter properly. It only managed to dent the drywall and place a tiny and infuriating crack in the glass. Well, this is a fucking disaster, Greg thought bitterly to himself.

...................................................................................................

It had been a week and Gregory Lestrade had finally snapped. He had spent every second of the last seven days trying not to think about a certain Holmes man and had failed, quite spectacularly.  And now, here he was, on a Thursday night, seven beers and three whiskeys in, sobbing into the shoulder of a man he’d never met. This man, whose name was Steve, had come into the bar for a quick pint, and was now stroking Greg’s hair while he tried to think of a way to excuse himself from the awkward situation.

“Butcha see, thasss the thing,” Greg slurred through his tears, “he’s al- hiccough – always there. In my mind. Uuuuusually naked, but thass neither here nor there.”

“So, your boyfriend...” Steve ventured.

“Ah, hee’sss not my boyff- not my boyfriend,” Greg interrupted raising his head from Steve’s shoulder.

Steve stared blankly at Greg, “Okay then, your not boyfriend, he’s being a prick?”

“He’ss always a prick,” Greg agreed solemnly, “but righ’ now, at this part-particl-particular moment, hee’ss all that I want.” Greg finished his fourth whiskey and sniffled. Steve placed an awkward hand on his shoulder. “I don’t wannaa though. I wissshh, I wissh I could walk away, bu there’ssss not really anything to walk away frommm. He won’t talk ta me.” Greg swiped a hand under his nose. “I think, I think I love him.”

Steve sighed and leaned in, “Greg, if I may, and you by no means need to listen to me, but I think that perhaps you should be telling him that.”

Greg met Steve’s eyes and burst into tears. Steve sighed and pulled the strange man in for a hug. Greg gripped him tight.

...................................................................................................

Greg’s head was pounding. He opened his eyes but shut them immediately and groaned in pain when the sunlight hit him full in the face. He didn’t know where he was. He had no memory of making it home the previous night and the sheets beneath his half-naked body were unfamiliar. He attempted to sit up and his stomach rolled in protest. There was a soft knock on the door.

Steve poked his head into the bedroom and Greg covered his face with his hands. “Bloody hell,” Greg’s voice was rough and upset, “Please tell me I didn’t actually do what I think I did.”

Steve giggled from his place at the door. He entered the room fully, a cup of tea in each hand. “Don’t worry, Greg. I’m way too much of a gentleman to actually have sex with a man who spent the entire night telling me how much he loved someone else.” Steve smirked as he handed Greg his tea. “No matter how hard he may beg.”

Greg groaned and managed to sit up. “I didn’t beg. Did I?”

Steve laughed, “I’m afraid you did, sweetheart. After the sixth whiskey, the conversation basically went like this, ‘I hate Mycfrot...’”

Greg snorted. “It’s Mycroft.”      

“Whatever. You fluctuated between loving and hating him and every so often you would add in, ‘We should have sex, I’m good at sex you know, please?’ It was strangely flattering.”

Greg couldn’t control his laughter.

...................................................................................................

Three days later, during which he claims not to have left 116 voicemails, Greg still had not heard from Mycroft. And then, shit got real. It was Monday night, around 11:30, and Greg was sleeping. He was exhausted from babysitting Sherlock and quite possibly coming down with the flu, or maybe he was just developing allergies to that bloody ridiculous coat, but that’s not the point. The point is that Gregory Lestrade was asleep, and quite happy to be so.

So he was less than thrilled when a weight was suddenly across his lap and nimble fingers were feathering over his naked chest. He slapped them away and rolled over knocking whoever it was onto the bed. But these fingers were persistent, after all, Mycroft Holmes never took no for an answer. He ran his fingers through the hair at Greg’s temple, kissing anywhere he could reach, noting a gratifying stirring in Greg’s pants. But Greg groaned and pulled his pillow over his face.

Mycroft sighed and looked longingly at the man laid out beside him. He admired the softly muscled torso, the rough calluses of his hands, the strong thighs. He leaned forward and began placing light kisses on Greg’s lower abdomen enjoying the feel of fluttering muscles beneath his lips. He palmed Greg’s still growing erection through the thin cotton and he heard an almost obscenely soft moan come from beneath the pillow. The muscular thighs he had previously admired spread slightly of their own accord.

Mycroft reached for the waistband of Greg’s pants, but hands grabbed his wrists and dragged him up the bed. Greg had emerged from beneath the pillow and pulled Mycroft in for a soft kiss. Mycroft could tell that something had changed, that this kiss was unlike any of the previous ones they had shared, but Greg was very talented with his tongue and Mycroft couldn’t help but melt into it. Greg sighed into the kiss, wrapping Mycroft in his arms and pulling the thin man as close as he could. He pulled back and placed his forehead against Mycroft’s and smiled, happy, just from the presence of the man he loved.

A few blissful minutes passed before Mycroft spoke.

“Gregory,” Mycroft murmured slowly, “as much as I enjoy being wrapped in your arms, I really can’t stay long and my arse is practically aching for your cock.”

Mycroft’s hands had migrated downwards during his statement, slipping under Greg’s pants to cup his delicious bum. Greg’s eyes flew open. He pushed away from Mycroft roughly and rolled himself until he was sitting on the edge of the bed. He hunched his shoulders as if preparing to ward off a blow.

“Mycroft, what are we doing?”

“Well, we were about to have highly enjoyable sex.”

“And that’s enough for you?”

“What are you on about? It’s sex. I like the way you fuck. It doesn’t matter...”

“It fucking matters to me, you prick,” Greg all but shouted as he stood and turned to Mycroft.

“Gregory,” Mycroft began in what he meant to be a placating voice, but really just ended up condescending, “It’s okay...”

“No, no it’s not okay. You show up whenever the fuck you feel like it, never mind what’s going on in my life. You never answer my phone calls or respond to me in any way that doesn’t involve orgasms.”

“What’s wrong with orgasms?”

“Nothing! But damn it, Myc, I am not just a toy for you to pick up and put down whenever it strikes your fancy.”

Mycroft slid to the edge of the bed and stood, straightening his waistcoat and jacket, before heading to the door. Greg slammed his hand on the door, preventing Mycroft from making the clean exit he wished for.

“Gregory, you’ve made it perfectly clear that you’re not in the mood for _orgasms_ tonight,” Mycroft sneered, his voice tight. He did not turn to look at Greg, instead remaining resolutely facing the door.

“That is not what I said at all and you know it. Look at me. Damn it Myc, look at me!” Greg grabbed Mycroft’s face and yanked it toward him, meeting Mycroft’s cold eyes with his own blazing stare. “Tonight is not the problem. Well, it’s part of the problem. I’m too old to be used like this.”

“Excuse me if I thought you were virile enough for the occasional romp. I won’t make that mistake again.”

Greg released Mycroft’s chin and punched the door.

“You are the most infuriating man I’ve ever met, and I deal with your brother almost daily.”

“May I leave now? It’s clear you’re no longer interested in sex with me...” 

“Mycroft, that...”

"I confess it took less time than I imagined it would...”

“Mycroft, I am not...”

“But I did anticipate this would happen...”

“I AM STILL INTERESTED IN SEX WITH YOU, YOU BLOODY GREAT ARSE!”

“Well then why, may I ask, are you being such an utter dick?”

“I’m being a dick. Me?”

“Yes, quite. And I really don’t understand why, I’ve provided you with perfectly commitment free sex. I gave you relatively regular orgasms without the strife of relationships and this is how you act?”

“BECAUSE I BLOODY WELL LOVE YOU!”

Silence. Silence like no silence had ever been heard on Earth. Greg was positive he could hear butterflies in the fucking Amazon, that’s how quiet it was. Mycroft looked as if he’d been hit over the head with a brick, or twenty, and Greg hung his head. He hadn’t meant to say that. He certainly hadn’t meant to shout it. Greg sighed. Time for damage control.

“Look, Mycroft,” Greg began quietly, but Mycroft seemed to snap back to reality. He grabbed his coat and brolly and left before Greg could make a move to stop him.

...................................................................................................

Gregory Lestrade was fucked. Completely and utterly fucked. However, he was quite proud to say that he managed to go an entire nine hours before he started calling Mycroft. Well, after the initial 17 calls he made in the first hour, at least. And the three he made two hours later. And the one he made in hour seven. But, unsurprisingly, Mycroft didn’t answer. Not once. At least he had a valid reason for avoiding Greg this time. But now it was going on two days since the “incident”, and Greg was getting desperate.

He had finally resorted to calling Sherlock. Or rather, John Watson.

“Hello?” John sounded breathless.

“Umm. John? It’s uh Greg.”

John made a noise halfway between a moan and a growl.

“Stop for a second I’m on the phone,” John whispered sounding like he wanted anything but what he was asking, “Yeah Greg, anything I can do for you?”

“Er. Is this a bad time?” Greg asked as he heard a hiss and a strangled moan.

“No, not at all,” John insisted, though Greg could tell he was clenching his jaw, “What do you need Greg?”

“Could you maybe-” Greg graciously ignored the sounds of squeaking springs, “-meet me at the pub? And bring Sherlock?”

“Sure. No problem. Just give me twenty,” an indignant huff from a full mouth came through the line, “No, thirty minutes. We’ll be there.”

Greg hung up before John’s next moan could permanently scar him.

...................................................................................................

John and Sherlock walked into the pub 47 minutes later looking thoroughly and unabashedly well-shagged. They stopped at the door and John adjusted Sherlock’s scarf letting his fingers linger on the bare skin of Sherlock’s neck. Gregory felt a pang of jealousy watching the easy affection that passed between the two men. The adoration he could see in both of their eyes. John stood on tiptoe and pressed a light almost chaste kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. They smiled then John grabbed Sherlock’s hand and pulled him to the bar where Greg was already three-quarters of the way through his glass of beer, and about halfway through his pitcher.

“Damn Greg, you look like shit.” John sat down next to Greg and looked him over worriedly. Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to make some scathing observation about Greg’s declining mental state and his increase in alcohol intake, but John gave him a look that clearly said, ‘Sherlock Holmes you shut your mouth right this second’. Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut and he went to get him and John drinks.

“Alright, out with it. What’s going on?” Greg ignored him and swallowed the rest of his beer. John reached out a hand and placed it on Greg’s arm. “Greg? What happened?”

Greg put his elbows up on the bar and buried his face in his hands. “I made the mistake of fucking a Holmes,” he said quietly.

John didn’t hear him because, let’s face it, Greg was mumbling into his hands in a relatively crowded bar.

“Sorry, didn’t quite catch that.”

“I MADE A STUPID FUCKING DECISION AND SLEPT WITH MYCROFT BLOODY HOLMES!”

Sherlock had chosen that moment to walk up with John’s drink which he deposited quickly in front of his lover and then fled. John tried to hide his smile behind his hand as Greg poured himself another beer.

“Mmm... And? Was it not good?” John asked politely, trying not to giggle.

“Of course it was good. It was fan-fucking-tastic, that’s not really the issue.”

John sobered a little and nodded. “Of course not. Well then, what exactly is the problem?”

Greg chugged half of his beer and sighed.

“I kept doing it.”

John looked puzzled. “Okay...?”

“He kept coming over, and I kept letting him, and now he’s not, and I’m in fucking love.”

“Ahh, I see. So, the problem is not that you fucked a Holmes, the problem is that you now love a Holmes. Have you tried perhaps telling him this?”

“I might have done. I may have angrily shouted it at him a few days ago. And now I know he won’t come back again. And not that the next visit was ever guaranteed, but, Jesus, I miss the smug bastard.”

Greg laid his face on his arms and John placed a hand on his shoulder.

“What do you need?”

“I just want to talk to him. He won’t answer the phone. He never answered the phone.” Greg finished his beer. “I just want to hear his voice, see his face, and feel him next to me, if only just for a little while.”

John frowned and locked eyes with Sherlock across the bar. They had an entire conversation that probably went something like this:

‘Call your brother’

‘But...’

‘Now.’

‘Fine.’

Because Sherlock pulled out his phone and dialled Mycroft’s number. He picked up on the second ring. Though Greg couldn’t hear the conversation he could see Sherlock’s annoyance written on his face. Sherlock seemed to be having trouble hearing so he crossed the bar to the door and left. Greg managed to catch a tiny snippet of Sherlock’s words and all he’d said was, “You’re an idiot.” Greg sighed.

“Hey, being in love with a Holmes isn’t as bad as all that.” John bumped Greg with his shoulder. “Buck up.”

Greg grinned. “Yes, you and Sherlock seem to be getting along _very_ well.”

John had the decency to blush.

...................................................................................................

Greg never found out what Sherlock said to Mycroft. He supposed it didn’t really matter. He figured if anything Sherlock probably made it worse. With the level of animosity, as good-natured as it may be on occasion, between the two brothers, Greg didn’t honestly believe that Mycroft would listen to anything Sherlock had to say. Fuck, he wasn’t even sure Sherlock was arguing his side.

Which is why, Saturday morning, Greg found himself standing surrounded by shattered glass, coffee soaking into his socks, staring at his phone.

**I will be at your flat at a quarter to 7 this evening. –MH**

**Unless that is inconvenient. –MH**

Greg spent a good twenty minutes just staring at the screen, even after it had gone dark. He placed the phone on the counter and cleaned the mess from his kitchen floor. He glanced at the phone again before deciding he needed a nice long shower. And if in the shower he forgot what he was doing and ended up washing his hair three times, well, there was no one there to know. He padded out of the bathroom, towelling his hair, and his gaze immediately fell upon the phone. He stood across the kitchen just watching it, as though it were about to come to life, don a sombrero, and bullfight with his bananas.

When his skin began to chill and goosebumps appeared on his arm he pulled his eyes and thoughts from the phone. He walked out of his bedroom 27 minutes later, dressed in a clean t-shirt and a worn pair of jeans, to see the phone vibrating on the counter. He approached it on tiptoe, his bare feet making no sound on the cool tile. He picked it up with two fingers, holding it gingerly as if it were about to explode.

**If you have objections, I will stay home. I would not wish to make you uncomfortable. –MH**

**I have things I can do instead. There is always work to be done. –MH**

Greg would have laughed if he hadn’t been fighting his growing urge to vomit. His fingers shook as he attempted to type a message that conveyed his desire to see Mycroft but didn’t sound terribly needy and desperate.

**ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? OF COURSE YOU CAN COME.**

Maybe a bit too much.

**Ehh... I guess I could move some things around if you need me to.**

Perhaps that’s a little underwhelmed.

**Hey, it’s not inconvenient at all. You’re always welcome. –GL**

Fuck it, here goes nothing.

...................................................................................................

Gregory Lestrade was a nervous wreck. No, he hadn’t cleaned his flat from baseboards to ceiling. No, he hadn’t done 100 push ups and sit ups. No, he hadn’t taken another shower. And he most certainly hadn’t washed his hair an additional three times. Okay, maybe he had, but he had to do something to keep himself from fleeing the country.

It was currently 6:37 and Greg was sitting not even remotely patiently on the couch, tapping out a beat on his thigh, clenching his fists, trying to keep himself from biting his fingernails, failing, and staring at the door. It’s quite possible he was also periodically checking his phone for messages and the news for traffic updates. But all motion stopped when Greg heard a creak on the stairs, the soft thud of footsteps on wood accompanied occasionally by a light tap, like the end of an umbrella. Greg couldn’t breathe, but he rose to his feet and walked, at least he assumes he walked though he supposes it’s possible he flew, it doesn’t matter, he went to the door, pulling it open as Mycroft raised his fist to knock.

Mycroft slowly lowered his fist his eyes never leaving Greg’s. There was confusion and wonder and an emotion Greg couldn’t read in those eyes. He could happily spend the rest of his days living in them. Mycroft cleared his throat and adjusted his jacket, his eyes dropping quickly.

“Hello Gregor-”

Greg threw his arms around Mycroft’s neck and kissed him harder than he’d kissed anyone. Mycroft responded almost immediately, sliding his arms around Greg’s waist and begging for entrance to his mouth with quick swipes of his tongue. Greg was perfectly happy to oblige, tangling his tongue with Mycroft’s as the kiss became slower and more sensual. He ran his hands up Mycroft’s neck and into the soft, thinning hair. He pulled a little when Mycroft sucked lightly on his tongue, and Mycroft released an obscene moan. They broke for air. Greg tucked his head in the crook of Mycroft’s neck and held him as close as possible. Mycroft tightened his arms around Greg and kissed his forehead.

“Gregory,” Mycroft’s voice cracked.

“Shhh.”        

“But Gregory, I need to-”

“Shhh... Whatever it is, it can wait.”

“No, it damn well can’t.” Mycroft ground out. “You do not get to relegate what I say, and if I want to tell you that I’m sorry I’m an insensitive prick and that I never meant to use you and that I’m so in love with you that I haven’t slept more than fifteen minutes since the last time I saw you, then I’ll do as I please.”

Greg froze. He could feel his mouth fall open but couldn’t seem to find the strength to close it. His arms tightened in shock and no, he was not crying. He had dust in his eye. He stepped away from Mycroft and ran a hand through his hair.

“I- you- wha... I-” Greg sputtered.

“Dear me, that was eloquent,” Mycroft drawled, picking lint from his sleeves.

“Why?” Greg looked incredulous as he turned back toward Mycroft.

“Ahh... That’s something I’ve learned about sentiment,” Mycroft walked slowly towards Greg, “It seems, love defies all reason.”

Mycroft ran a hand through the hair at Greg’s temple and the other grasped Greg’s jaw. Greg smiled up at him and Mycroft pulled him forward for a sweet and simple kiss.

...................................................................................................

Gregory Lestrade had been in all kinds of relationships. He’d had girlfriends, boyfriends, a fiancée, a wife. But he had never had a relationship with anyone quite like Mycroft Holmes. There were still times when he wondered if he knew the man at all, but there were times when he knew that no one knew him better. They fought. They fucked. They cried. They laughed. And when all else failed, they just wrapped one another in their arms and held on. Because love overcomes all.


End file.
